


and all this devotion I never knew at all

by elegantidler



Series: orange blossoms [3]
Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Genre: Body Worship, Historical, M/M, Morning Sex, Persia, Trans Character, Trans Erik, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:55:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25218112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elegantidler/pseuds/elegantidler
Summary: Exactly what it says in the tags.
Relationships: Erik | Phantom of the Opera/The Persian
Series: orange blossoms [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1802401
Comments: 4
Kudos: 26





	and all this devotion I never knew at all

Erik wakes to the not quite morning light streaming through the window, lighting the room with soft pink shadows.

When he was a child he had always loved the hours just before dawn the best. It was the only time of day when no one expected anything of him, the only time of day that still held the hope that maybe this day would be different from the cruelty of every day before it.

He would creep out of bed before his parents woke and sit with his chin on the windowsill, watching the sky turn from blue to pink to gold and he would let himself have hope for something better.

As he had grown up he had learned that hope is the cruelest of sufferings.

No day was ever any different and somewhere along the line he had given up hoping for anything at all. There was no more beauty of hope to be found in the weak and feeble early light, just the promise of another day exactly like every day before.

As an adult his favorite time of day was the dead of night. In the dark there was no one to scream in horror at his face, no one to point and laugh, no rejection, no cruelty. The world left him alone and he was glad for it. He existed in the lonely darkness and told himself that he preferred the solitude anyway.

Barforush had changed everything.

 _Raheem_ had changed everything.

The pink morning light is just starting to turn gold and Erik feels the hope that he has spent years dampening flutter in his chest once more.

Raheem is asleep beside him, the light from the window not quite reaching him yet, his expression soft in sleep. He has one arm resting easily across Erik’s stomach.

This was the first night they had fallen asleep together, tucked neatly into each other, the first time they have woken up next to each other.

This is something that Erik has never dared to hope for, not even in the naïve foolishness of childhood.

To have someone who does not merely tolerate him, but actively seeks him out, someone who has kissed his face, his body, without flinching, someone who listens to him and doesn't push when he is quiet, someone who laughs with him instead of at him.

This isn’t just lucky; Erik thinks this is as close to sacred as someone like him is capable of having.

In this room, in this moment, Erik feels happy. He feels content. He very nearly feels safe. And he never wants to wake up alone ever again.

Very lightly, still unused to his touch being accepted, he moves to trace a swirling pattern on Raheem’s extended arm, his thin pale fingers in stark contrast with Raheem’s warm brown skin.

Raheem stirs as the pink-gold light falls across his face and Erik’s old familiar fear pricks its head up as he realizes that his face is still uncovered.

He attempts to untangle himself to retrieve his mask only for Raheem to tighten his grip on him.

“Stay,” he murmurs, still half asleep.

“I—I have to get my mask.”

Raheem blinks his eyes open and looks up at Erik who turns his face away on instinct.

“Why?”

Erik gestures to his face, still not looking back at Raheem.

“This is not a pleasant thing to wake up to.”

Raheem hums.

“I think the only thing that will make this morning unpleasant is if you run off before it starts.”

Erik hovers halfway between standing and sitting, unsure what to do.

But in the end he is powerless to resist the look Raheem gives him and he crawls back beside him.

Raheem shifts and presses close to Erik’s side, his chin on Erik’s chest, looking up at him.

“Good morning, beloved.”

Erik scoffs lightly.

“No one will ever write poetry for me.”

Raheem props himself up on his elbow and looks intently at Erik before leaning down to kiss him.

“I think I will.”

Erik’s face heats in embarrassment that he has trapped Raheem into doing this out of guilt.

“You don’t have to do that,” he mutters.

“No I don’t, but I want to,” Raheem says with an easy smile. “Now be quiet, let me think.”

A moment of silence and then Raheem clears his throat dramatically and begins.

“I love his lips because they kiss me. And I like that little quiver they do when he’s mimicking Nuri from across the room.

“I like his ears because how else would he hear his lover’s beautiful crafted poetry?”

_Lover._

Erik turns to face him, smiling so brightly that Raheem has to kiss him again.

“He is narcissus-eyed; his brightness makes even the most moon-faced beauty look common.”

Erik raises an eyebrow and opens his mouth to say something self-deprecating but Raheem stops him.

“Shh. Don’t interrupt, you’re being gazed at.”

Erik tries to roll his eyes but can’t hide his fondness.

“I love his hands,” he pauses to tangle their fingers together before moving on, “not because they bear wine, but because they hold mine.”

He unbuttons the last few buttons on Erik’s nightshirt and traces his very visible ribs, feeling Erik shiver beneath him.

“I like his ribs because they protect his gentle heart,” he presses a kiss to Erik’s heart, lingering to feel it beat.

“And I love his heart for letting me in.”

He moves down to the newly forming pink scar above Erik’s hip.

Erik has more scars than anyone should have, especially someone as young as they are.

A lot of them, like this scar on his hip, look like they’re from fights, some no doubt, from the executions he’s been carrying out recently back in Tehran. But some are too oddly shaped or too oddly positioned to be from fighting. And the ones that stripe across his back are not from fighting. And they are very old.

And they break Raheem’s heart to see them but all he can do is kiss them gently and love Erik even more fiercely.

“I like his scars _, all of them_ , because he survived them. He made it through all of them to get to me. To get to us."

He pauses to kiss several of the scars marking Erik's chest and arms before moving on. 

“I like his belly because he squirms when I kiss it,” he says as his lips ghost over Erik’s concave stomach.

Erik squeaks satisfyingly above him.

Raheem trails a hand down his side.

“I love the curve of his waist and,” he pauses for a moment, looking up at Erik and plucking at the waistband of his trousers, waiting for permission.

Erik nods shakily.

“And the crease of his hips,” he trails lower, fingers ghosting over Erik’s skin, “and the softness of his thighs.”

He inches his fingers back up ever so slightly.

“And…”

“Don’t stop.” Erik whispers, grabbing at Raheem’s unoccupied hand.

“And I love how wet he is.”

Erik lets out a shuddery breath as Raheem slips two fingers into him.

"And I love the sounds he makes, and the way his body tenses. I love how much he trusts me. I loved him yesterday and I will love him tomorrow, and I will love him when we are old and dying." 

Erik’s grip on Raheem’s hand goes vice-like as he reaches his climax, his breathing fast and shallow. 

Raheem kisses his way back up Erik’s body and props himself up on his elbow again, surveying his work, rather pleased with himself.

He reaches out and gently cups Erik’s boney cheek.

Erik’s eyes are still squeezed shut, overwhelmed, but his expression softens at the gesture and he takes several deep, steadying breaths.

Without opening his eyes, he raises his own hand to cover Raheem’s and he turns his face halfway to press a small kiss to his palm.

Raheem runs his thumb over Erik’s cheekbone.

“So the poetry was good then?” He asks with a slight smirk.

Erik opens his eyes and pokes Raheem in the ribs in return.

“Oh you’ll rival Hafez any day now.”

“Obviously,” Raheem’s smirk spreads into a wide grin.

“And I love you too,” Erik says, leaning up to kiss him.

And in the golden morning light, his heart hopes for the future again.

**Author's Note:**

> The 'beloved' and poetry lines are references to ghazals, a form of poetry that Raheem is winging here, very loosely and poorly, but his themes about beauty are pulled from historical precedent. 
> 
> For an excellent discussion of beauty, gender, and sexuality, see Afsaneh Najmabadi's 'Women With Mustaches and Men Without Beards: Gender and Sexual Anxieties in Modern Iran'
> 
> Nuri is Mirza Aqa Khan Nuri, Naser al-Din's second chief minister from 1851-1858


End file.
